Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [279]
"Curiosity," said Miles firmly.
"All right, stun, fast-penta, and hang, then."
"If he fast-penta's me, I'll tell him exactly the facts I was going to tell him anyway." And a few more besides, alas. "And he'll have fewer doubts. So much the better."
Miles was rescued from further hollow flummery by the clank and hiss of the flex tube's sealing. Thorne's sergeant undogged the hatch without hesitation, though he was also careful not to stand silhouetted in the aperture, Miles noted.
"Squad, form up!" the sergeant ordered. His six people checked their stunners. Thorne and the sergeant in addition bore nerve disrupters, a nicely calculated mix of weapons; stunners to allow for human error, the nerve disrupters to encourage the other side not to risk mistakes. Miles went unarmed. With a mental salute to Cavilo—well, a rude gesture, actually—he'd put his felt slippers back on. Thorne at his side, he took the lead of the little procession and marched through the flex tube into one of the Aslunder military station's almost-finished docking bays.
True to his word, Oser had a party of witnesses lined up and waiting. The squad of twenty or so bore a mix of weapons almost identical to the Ariel's group. "We're outnumbered," muttered Thorne.
"It's all in the mind," Miles muttered in return. "March like you had an empire at your back." And don't look over your shoulder, they may be gaining on us. They'd better be gaining on us. "The more people who see me, the better."
Oser himself stood waiting in parade rest, looking highly dyspeptic. Elena—Elena!—stood at his side, unarmed, face frozen. Her tight-lipped stare at Miles was tense with suspicion, not of his motives, perhaps, but certainly of his methods. Now what foolishness? her eyes asked. Miles gave her the briefest of ironic nods before saluting Oser.
Reluctantly, Oser returned the military courtesy. "Now—'Admiral'—let us return to the Triumph and get down to business," he grated.
"Indeed, yes. But let's have a little tour of this Station on the way, eh? The non-top-secured areas, of course. My last view was so . . . rudely cut short, after all. After you, Admiral?"
Oser gritted his teeth. "Oh, after you, Admiral."
It became a parade. Miles led them around for a good forty-five minutes, including a march through the cafeteria during the dinner rush with several noisy stops to greet by name the few old Dendarii he recognized, and favor the others with blinding smiles. He left babble in his wake, those in the dark demanding explanation from those in the know.
An Aslunder work crew was busy tearing out fiberboard paneling, and he paused to compliment them on their labors. Elena seized an opportunity of Oser's distraction to bend down and breathe fiercely in Miles's ear, "Where's Gregor?"
"Thereby hangs—me, if I fail to get him back," Miles whispered. "Too complicated, tell you later."
"Oh, God." She rolled her eyes.
When he had, judging from the admiral's darkening complexion, just about reached the limits of Oser's strained tolerance, Miles suffered himself to be led Triumph-ward again. There. Obedient to Cavilo's orders, Miles had made no attempt to contact Barrayar. But if Ungari couldn't find him after this, it was time to fire the man. A prairie bird thrumming out a mad mating dance could scarcely have put on a more conspicuous display.
Finishing touches on construction were still in progress around the Triumph's docking bay as Miles marched his parade across it. A few Aslunder workers in tan, light blue, and green leaned over to goggle down from catwalks. Military techs in their dark blue uniforms paused in mid-installation to stare, then had to re-sort connections and realign bolts. Miles refrained from smiling and waving, lest Oser's set jaw crack. No more baiting, time to get serious. The thirty or so mercenaries could change from honor guard to prison guard with his next roll of the dice.
Thorne's tall sergeant, marching beside Miles, gazed